


Knock

by Emachinescat



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Bonding, Bromance, Concussions, Early Days, Epic Bromance, FebuWhump2021, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt Merlin (Merlin), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Season/Series 01, Violence, febuwhumpday10
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29342748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emachinescat/pseuds/Emachinescat
Summary: It is common knowledge in Camelot that one should never, under any circumstances, enter Sir Owen's chambers without knocking. Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell Prince Arthur's new servant. TW: PTSD. Febuwhump Day 10 - "I'm sorry, I didn't know"
Comments: 5
Kudos: 106
Collections: Febuwhump 2021 - Emachinescat, febuwhump 2021





	Knock

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to be posting another Merlin story – they'll be a lot more frequent now. :) This one was so fun to write – it's my own take on the "beat up by a knight" trope. I wanted to do a different angle on it. It was also fun writing such early days for our boys! This could be read as either friendship or pre-slash. Either way, it's super whumpy and sweet and makes me happy. Hopefully you'll enjoy it too!

Everyone in Camelot knew about Sir Owen, and everyone who had met him loved him. He was an old warrior, a man of honor and valor with a keen sense for battle and a veritable treasure trove of wisdom. He was old and gray now, and limped from the festering aches of old battle wounds, but he always had a smile and time to chat with anyone he met, nobles and servants alike. After he had retired from knighthood, Uther had awarded him quarters in the castle and a life of luxury.

The kind old man received regular visitors to his spacious rooms and always gladly welcomed them. Lady Morgana brought him a vase of flowers every week, new knights would often visit for advice and encouragement, many of the maids would stop for quick chats between chores, and Gaius brought him his medicine for his old battle wounds and nightmares every evening before bed. Once or twice the king himself had been seen visiting his old friend, and he too always departed with a smile.

There was something that every one of Sir Owen's many admirers and visitors knew, however, and honored without compromise: Never, under any circumstances, should you enter Sir Owen's chambers without knocking.

More specifically, no one should enter his chambers without loudly and clearly announcing themselves first – a light, polite knock wouldn't do, especially not now that he had lost all his hearing in one ear, with the other ear quickly following suit. You had to knock loudly and aggressively, and if he _still_ didn't hear you, then you had to proclaim yourself as loudly as possible when you eased the door open to peek in. Ultimately, the last thing anyone wanted to do was to sneak up on the beloved Sir Owen, because if he was taken off guard, if he thought he was being ambushed, he became a completely different person.

Sir Owen had fought valiantly for Camelot for many decades, and in that time he saw horrors of battle and the worst of humanity. He'd been gravely injured protecting his fellow knights on no less than three occasions, the final of which had forced him to hang up his chainmail for good. And though he was a perfectly pleasant gentleman when he was in his right mind, in those moments of fear and panic – like when he thought he was being snuck up on or ambushed – he shifted back into the fearsome warrior who had felled scores of Camelot's enemy's over the years. And though he was old, he was still strong for his age, and crafty, and his confusion only fueled the desperate strength within him.

Sadly, his moments of lucidity had declined rapidly in recent days, and sometimes he struggled to remember who was his enemy and who was his friend during normal, mundane conversations. He only became violent when he was scared or surprised, however, which was what made announcing one's presence of the utmost importance when calling upon him.

Every servant in Camelot knew this, as did all the knights and nobles who paid him regular visits. Well – all of the servants except for Merlin, Prince Arthur's new manservant, who had just been ordered by his prince to go to Sir Owens' chambers to escort the man to the training grounds. Arthur had asked him to oversee the newest recruits on this crisp autumn morning, and to his delight, the old knight, who had been staying in more often than not, had agreed to do just that. Merlin was happy to have a job other than hefting all of Arthur's heavy equipment to the training grounds on his own (and all in one go, because Arthur was too impatient to allow Merlin to make multiple trips and very clearly cared nothing for Merlin's well being in the slightest).

Merlin had never met Sir Owen before but knew that he was a bit of a legend around the castle. He'd heard whispers of some of the brave deeds and epic battles the man had fought in Camelot's first days. He also knew Morgana brought him flowers to brighten up his chambers, and that he was supposed to be a very kind man with great advice and a smile that would brighten every room. Sir Owen sounded a positive delight, and Merlin had jumped at the opportunity to fetch him for Arthur so that he could meet this amazing man for himself. He sounded like a breath of fresh air in the stuffy citadel – but then again, most anyone who wasn't the prince of Camelot could claim that title, in Merlin's book.

Although Merlin had never been good at the niceties of court when dealing with Arthur, he did make it a priority to remember to knock if he were at anyone else's door – as Gaius had told him on many occasions, if he just barged into the wrong person's chambers, he could be in trouble so deep that even Gaius couldn't bail him out. And so, when he reached the old knight's chamber door, Merlin made a point to reach out his fist and give a few hearty knocks on the door.

No answer.

Merlin waited a short time before knocking again, but again, no one answered. Pressing his ear against intricately carved wood, he thought could hear _something_ from inside of the room – a faint shuffling, as if someone were moving around. The warlock shifted anxiously on his feet, warning bells clanging in his head. If someone was in the room, why didn't they answer the door? At the very least, why did the person not call out? Merlin could only think of two possibilities: Either the person in the room could not answer, or was not supposed to be there. Either way, something was off, and Merlin had to check and make sure the old man he was meant to fetch was okay.

Merlin tried the door – locked – and, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he was alone, directed a pointed stare at the lock, felt the heat of magic swell within him, and heard the rewarding _clunk_ as the door unlocked itself. Quietly, Merlin eased the door open and peered inside, looking for any sign of trouble. "Sir Owen?" His calm, quiet voice contradicted the furious beat of his heart, that instinct that warned him of danger.

No one seemed to be in the room that the wary servant could see, so Merlin inched his way further inside, taking in the elegant but sparse furnishings, the headless training dummy in old old but obviously well-cared for armor, and the weapon rack mounted on the wall that seemed to be missing its occupant. "Sir Owen?" Merlin called again, this time a little louder.

He didn't even have time to turn when he heard the quiet rush of footsteps from behind. The next thing he knew, Merlin was facedown on the warm woolen rug that spanned much of the stone floor, the breath completely knocked out of him. Pain lanced through his upper back, sparking like lightning between his shoulder blades. Something had hit him – hard – and Merlin's instincts warned him that whoever it was that had attacked him wasn't done.

Only sheer force of will allowed the warlock to heave himself over on his back just in time to see Sir Owen himself, with his normally friendly, laugh-lined face twisted into a ferocious mockery of itself, gray hair come loose from its tie, and a hefty longsword, dulled with age but still deadly, brandished in his right hand. Merlin noticed that the sword, and the hand that held it, shook slightly moments before the old man – still in incredible shape for his age, as Merlin's screaming back proved clearly! – lunged again, this time with the point of the blade and not the flat.

Merlin rolled to the side, lungs still heaving for air after being winded by Owen's first hit, and the point of the sword cut a frayed line in the rug right where Merlin's head had been. Struggling to his feet, the disoriented servant tried to appeal to the knight's sensibilities; he gasped, "Sir Owen! I'm sorry; I didn't mean to frighten you." Another swing of the sword, and Merlin ducked out of the way in the nick of time. "I _did_ knock!" he insisted.

Sir Owen's eyes, Merlin noticed, were clouded, and when the man spoke, it became obvious that he was seeing a completely different scene than what was actually going on around him. Somehow, it seemed, he thought he was back on the battlefield, fighting a deadly opponent, instead of cornering a frightened servant who had done nothing to harm him. "I won't let you do it!" the man roared, and his voice cracked under the pressure of the rage and sorrow. "You killed my men – _you take_ _no one else!_ "

He advanced again, this time slowly, methodically, and Merlin backed away at the same pace, all too aware of the corner he was trapping himself in but afraid to bolt and frighten his confused aggressor into doing something he'd later regret. Raising his hands, Merlin spoke like he was addressing a small animal or a frightened child, "Sir Owen, my name is Merlin. I'm Prince Arthur's servant. He sent me here to fetch you for the –"

He was cut off as Owen slashed forward with the sword unexpectedly, and this time Merlin wasn't quite fast enough. Even the dulled edge was enough to slice through Merlin's shirt and into his upper arm, and fire erupted in the wound. Blood, warm and sticky, oozed from the cut and meandered down his arm. He ignored it, more focused on staying alive.

"Liar! Traitor! Murderer!"

Merlin didn't want to use magic on Sir Owen – from what he'd heard, the man was a genuinely good person, though something seemed very wrong with him now. On top of that, if he realized that his opponent had used magic after the fact, Merlin would be killed anyway. But the idea of being run through with a dull sword was so unpleasant that Merlin decided to take the risk. He turned to run from the next attack, allowed his eyes to flash gold, and heard his pursuer curse as his weapon somehow tumbled from his hands and skittered across the room. Hopefully, if he remembered this at all, he would put it down to losing his grip.

Now that the sword was out of the picture, Merlin felt a bit safer, but he couldn't decide if he should try to help Sir Owen himself or run to get someone else instead. His choice was taken away from him, though, because he hesitated a second too long – in the time that Merlin had been debating his next course of action, the keen knight had made up his mind and charged bravely into battle. Sir Owen was the kind of warrior who would continue to fight with his bare hands against an entire heavily armed battalion until the very end. He never gave up, never let a little thing like losing a sword stop him.

And so he charged.

To Merlin, it was like Arthur's prized steed had barrelled straight into him, such was the force with which Sir Owen slammed against him. For the second time in ten minutes, the wind was driven out of him from the force of the blow, and he sprawled, stunned, on the chamber floor, his head rapping painfully against the stone.

Bright lights flickered in his field of vision and he tried desperately to get his body to move, but his arms and legs weren't listening. He watched as the old knight, fury in his dark eyes, approached him, having abandoned the sword all together now that his enemy lay helpless at his feet. Merlin should have been glad that he wasn't using the sword, but he had a very unpleasant feeling that Owen did not need a weapon to kill.

Seconds later, his unprotected side exploded in agony as Sir Owen drove his boot forward in a merciless kick. Afraid to use his magic again, forgetting everything but his basest instincts to survive, Merlin curled in on himself, nearly crying out at the pain the movement caused him. Another kick, this one to his back, and Merlin rolled away the best he could, panting in pain. Halfway to his feet, on hands and knees, almost there –

Another kick, this one to his gut, and he gagged, falling forward, face-first onto the floor. Blood welled up in his mouth – he must have bitten his tongue.

Merlin scrabbled for purchase on the cold stone, trying to regain his bearings even as every part of his body rebelled against him. He felt the man's toe beneath his torso and sucked in a painful breath, but this time, all Owen did was flip him over. Merlin lay on his back, breath wheezing from his chest, and he was sure he had a broken rib, maybe more. Slowly, deliberately, like he had all the time in the world at his disposal, the old man knelt next to his fallen foe and leaned in close. Merlin could smell breakfast on his breath – the stink of aged cheese mingled with the sweetness of fruit – as he man hissed, "You'll die for this – sorcerer!"

Fear crescendoed, overshadowing the symphony of pain, as Merlin realized that somehow, Sir Owen had figured out what he had done, what he was. Helplessness took hold of the warlock. It didn't matter if he survived this encounter – which was looking less likely by the second, unless he used his magic again – his life in Camelot was over. Might as well use his magic to escape. The giant lizard was wrong, then. It couldn't be his destiny to serve Arthur and bring magic and peace to Albion. He would be on the run for the rest of his life.

Merlin focused on his magic through the pain and felt it rise within him. It slipped out of his grasp as something latched onto his hair and dragged his head up. Merlin got a single look up close at Sir Owen's eyes, filled with the kind of suffering no sword could inflict, brimming with regrets and hatred and death, before the man slammed the back of Merlin's head into the ground. A flash of white light – intense pain, swirling darkness.

Merlin may have blacked out for a few seconds, but it couldn't have been long, because when he regained a semblance of awareness – he couldn't move, so much pain, vision blurred, he was going to be sick – Sir Owen had retrieved his sword and had it poised over his helpless victim's heart. "Rot in hell, sorcerer," he spat, and Merlin squeezed his eyes shut, partly against the pain, mostly in preparation for death.

A voice sounded from somewhere close by, first annoyed, then panicked: "What the hell is taking so long _Mer_ lin? I– what – _NO!_ "

The fear in the last word, unexpected and guttural as it was, was enough to convince Merlin to open his eyes. Through the haze his vision had become, he saw a red and gold blur tackle Sir Owen, heard through ringing ears the sound of a brief struggle and the angry accusation "Sorcerer!" and then there was someone kneeling over him again, and Merlin struggled to sit up, to get away. He managed to turn over just in time to vomit all over Prince Arthur's clean boots.

To his surprise, the prince didn't yell or order him to scrub them again, right then and there. Instead, with surprisingly gentle hands, the man eased his servant back onto the ground and began checking him for injuries.

"You idiot," Arthur said as he probed the back of Merlin's head, eliciting a cry of pain and frowning at the blood staining his fingertips. He moved on to check Merlin's ribs ("Three broken, at the very least, but we'll have Gaius look at you.") and arm. "It's fairly shallow," he said, and Merlin thought he must have been giddy with pain and exertion at this point, because it sounded like the prince was actually _relieved_. Arthur stood, stepped out of his boots with a grimace, and ordered, "Stay there. I mean it – don't move. I've subdued Sir Owen for the moment, but he needs Gaius." A deep crevice between his brows, the prince added, "And so do you. You're a mess."

Merlin didn't hear if Arthur said anything else after that. He didn't even see the prince leave the room. The darkness had claimed him by then, wrapping its welcoming arms of comfort around him and staving off, if only for a little while, the pain and the fear of what was to come.

* * *

When he awoke, it was in his own bed, in his room, and he was alone. Merlin's head hurt more than he could ever remember it doing before – even more than the time he and Will had climbed on top of his roof and he'd fallen through the thatch. He'd smacked his head on the kitchen table when he'd landed on it, but the pain he'd been in had been nothing compared to his mother's wrath. Now, though, it was not an ache or even bursts of sharp pains – it was like a drum, and every beat increased the agony he felt. It was the kind of headache that turned your stomach against you, too, and made the world around you lose its crisp edges and stole your ability to concentrate on even the most simple of tasks. His arm, now bandaged, stung fiercely, and the gnawing ache in his ribs turned into a cacophonous mass of torment any time he thought of moving.

So he didn't move. He lay there, head pounding, body hurting like he had been run over by a horse, and allowed his mind to wander, though with the headache he had, he really did not have much control over the direction of his thoughts, anyway. In the end, every wandering pathway of his consciousness, every thought and question and memory, all led back to the terrifying realization that Sir Owen had seen his magic – somehow – and had probably already told Arthur and the king. Any moment now, guards would barge into his room and throw him into a cold, dark cell. Or maybe they'd skip the cell all together and toss him on a pyre. They wouldn't even have to tie him to it. He was too weak to move.

The door opened, and Merlin jumped in a mixture of surprise and terror. Even the small movement caused all of his injuries to flare up and he slumped back, face beaded with sweat, panting in exhaustion and pain, waiting for the inevitable and wondering if he should try to fight back with magic since his secret was already out anyway.

It was good that he didn't, because it was Arthur who entered, and he was alone, and there was a strange look on his face – if Merlin didn't know better, he would have said it was somewhere between worried and guilty, with a healthy dose of discomfort sprinkled in for good measure. "Merlin," the prince said in surprise, and it occurred to Merlin that he hadn't expected his servant to be awake yet. Arthur stayed in the doorway, uncertainty rolling off of him in waves. "I – Gaius stepped out for a moment, to check up on Sir Owen. He's been in quite a state, really disoriented and worried that he hurt you badly."

Merlin frowned, and even that hurt. "Gaius?"

Arthur stared at Merlin like he'd grown another head. "No, you moron. Sir Owen. He feels terrible about what happened."

Perhaps it was the head injury, but Merlin found himself thoroughly confused. "So… you're not here to arrest me?" He could hear the slur in his own words and realized that he probably looked as bad as – if not worse than – he sounded. Arthur appeared to be as baffled as Merlin. He finally moved beyond the arch of the door and into the room, awkwardly taking a seat in Merlin's chair, near the bed.

"Why would I be here to arrest you?" His blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. "What did you do this time?"

"Uh, Sir Owen, he said…" Merlin's thoughts were as fuzzy as his sight, and he felt that distinctive curdling in his stomach that told him he was going to be decorating Arthur's shoes again very shortly. Arthur must have seen that tell-tale paling of the face and whitening of the knuckles, because moments later, a bucket had been shoved under his nose and he threw up into it, vaguely surprised that there was anything left to expel. Arthur had produced a cup of water from somewhere, and when Merlin finished, the prince helped him take a sip. The water was bliss, cooling his raw throat and chasing away the sour taste in his mouth.

Nausea under control for the moment, Merlin cleared his throat uncomfortably, not meeting Arthur's eye after the strangely intimate moment (if he had been looking, he would have seen Arthur studiously avoiding his gaze as well). Merlin picked up where he'd left off, his voice cracked and timid. "Sir Owen called me a sorcerer." Arthur did look at him now, Merlin felt his eyes, but the warlock didn't reciprocate. Instead, in a rush, he said, "If he told you that, you have to understand–"

"Merlin." Arthur's voice held no malice, only concern and a heaviness that the servant did not understand. "You don't have to explain to me that you're not a sorcerer. Yes, Sir Owen said something about it when I was pulling him off of you, but I know he was confused."

Cautiously, Merlin pressed, "How do you know?"

Arthur laughed, a harsh, clipped sound. "Are you saying that you _are_ a sorcerer?"

Merlin's stomach flipped over on itself. "No," he lied, not sure why he had even mentioned Sir Owen's accusation in the first place. He was making himself look more suspicious; it was just hard to control what came out of his mouth – harder than usual, anyway. "I just want to know why you believe me over a respected former knight." There. That was reasonable, right? Merlin's head ached, and he just wanted to go back to sleep, but he had to know, had to have some kind of concrete assurance before he could rest.

Arthur sighed. That same weight tugged at the next words he said: "Sir Owen… he was a great knight, and incredibly brave and strong – still is, for that matter–"

"You can say that again," Merlin muttered, wincing.

Arthur glared at him, daring him to interrupt again, and continued, "But he has seen some horrible things on the field of battle. And if he thinks he's being attacked, he lashes out. Gaius says that he somehow finds himself back in the middle of a war, fighting off his worst enemies and watching his men die around him. It's like he's reliving the worst days of his life. And that's why he attacked you – he thought you were trying to ambush and kill him."

"But that doesn't explain–"

"I'm getting there, _Mer_ lin. For someone who looks half-dead, you sure can run your mouth like usual." Merlin grinned, despite himself. "Oh, don't look so proud," Arthur ordered irritably. "It's incredibly irritating." But his own mouth had stretched into a half–smile as well.

"Anyway – the last battle, the one that ended his career… A sorcerer who was fighting against Camelot nearly crippled him. He lay there, helpless, and had to watch as the sorcerer killed at least a dozen of his men. One of them was his only son."

A grim silence settled over master and servant, and a sick pit had formed in Merlin's stomach. It was the kind of hollowness that could only exist in misery and pain, and he found himself wishing for the nausea to return.

"He thought I was that sorcerer," Merlin clarified, heart aching for the man that had nearly killed him. "I didn't know"

"How could you?" Arthur asked. Then he added, his voice taking on more of the guilt that Merlin had thought he'd heard earlier, "And I – well, it's my fault," he hedged lamely. "That you got hurt. Because I didn't even think to warn you to knock before you entered the room. I was so focused on getting to the training field that it didn't cross my mind that you didn't know about Sir Owen's flashbacks, as Gaius calls them."

Merlin's eyelids were heavy, and everything hurt, and he could feel sleep calling to him, but he insisted stubbornly, "I _did_ knock."

Arthur raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Wonders never cease. But," he clarified, "if he doesn't hear you knocking and doesn't know you're coming, then it doesn't even matter if you did knock. I should have told you to announce yourself, or had someone go with you that knew what to do."

Somewhere in the other room, a door opened and closed.

"That'll be Gaius," said Arthur, standing up. He looked down at his battered servant, hesitated for the briefest of moments, and then said, "Sir Owen sends his apologies, and he hopes to meet you under better circumstances once you're both feeling up to it." In a rush, he added, "And, for what it's worth, I – I'm sorry too."

Merlin blinked in surprise, knowing how hard it had to have been for Arthur to admit he had made a mistake, let alone apologize for it. And even though the servant truly didn't think the prince had anything to apologize for (after all, Merlin forgot important things all the time), it was touching, and he could tell that despite his discomfort that Arthur really meant it and needed to know that all was well.

Arthur leaned over, gave Merlin's shoulder a gentle squeeze – even that sent bolts of agony through Merlin's body, but the gesture was appreciated, even cherished. "You did… surprisingly well in holding him off until I found you," he admitted as Gaius's footsteps were heard ascending the short set of stairs behind him.

"He beat me to a pulp and nearly sliced me in half," Merlin deadpanned.

"Yes, but you're still alive, and that in itself is almost impressive," Arthur said, and Merlin couldn't tell if the prince was serious or not. "Anyway," he said, backing away and making room for Gaius, who was puttering into the small room balancing a tray of medicines and broth. "I need to get to training. Gaius, make sure he's back to work the moment he's well enough, but… also, not a moment before he's ready."

Gaius nodded, patted Arthur on the shoulder in thanks, and began to treat his patient. Merlin watched Arthur leave, a warm feeling blossoming in his chest that had nothing to do with the broken ribs. He barely even heard Gaius's lecture about propriety and taking care of himself and knowing all the facts before he walked in on a situation. His wandering, aching mind was too busy thinking about the prince.

When he'd first come to Camelot, Arthur never would have apologized for anything. Already, amazingly, Merlin was beginning to see a change in the other man, a spark of something that made Merlin the tiniest bit proud to know him. And it may have been the head injury talking, but right now, despite the irritation he so commonly felt toward his new master, the idea of this destiny the dragon had prophesied suddenly didn't seem too terrible after all.

Maybe _Arthur_ wasn't so bad, either.

**Author's Note:**

> I would love to know what you think! :) There are still 8 more Merlin stories to come this month, and I'm having a hard time being patient with posting lol.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading and your support!
> 
> ~Emachinescat ^..^


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